CHAPTER IV

THE RAG TRADE

Once the work began to flow in, it snowballed amazingly fast. Apart from working for The Queen, which started using me continually, most of the jobs I did were not exactly glamorous. However, I was working all the time and booked well ahead doing everything from gazing at gas stoves with sparkling eyes, to modelling bits of myself like a hand for a wrist-watch or the base of my neck for a collar.

The six months I had given myself to get started in modelling were up and I could begin to look back rather disdainfully at the modest £7 a week I had set as my goal. I was now earning between 15 and 30 guineas a week, but I was not saving a penny as there were so many outgoing expenses, like the taxis which one had to take between jobs in order to fit everything in, nylons, make-up and hairdressing. All the time I was trying to build up my wardrobe, particularly shoes and accessories. Also I had to pay 10 per cent to my agent, income tax, and all other living expenses; in fact, far from being able to save, I was always in debt.

The work was hard and strenuous, but I loved it and could not bring myself to say no to any job, I was so happy to be working hard. I often went down to the Great West Road to the Jantzen factory to show their swimsuits. At one time they used me so much that I was nicknamed the Jantzen girl. On one particular occasion in March, Pathé Newsreel booked two of us to go down to Brighton and model Jantzen swimsuits on the beach. The weather was freezing, and it was difficult to look gay and summery with gooseflesh and teeth chattering. After we finished we were blue with cold and had to be given brandies to revive us. Some weeks later I remember paying two shillings at a news theatre to see the results. I was so thrilled at seeing myself on the screen that I prodded a complete stranger sitting in the next seat and whispered, ‘That’s me’.

My anxiety to please and do everything I was told did not always have very happy results. Once I was doing a large cotton show at the Dorchester Hotel. Afterwards the press photographers in their dirty mackintoshes crowded round to take photographs. I had shown a two piece bathing-suit, almost a bikini, which was a ‘natural’ for them in their everlasting search for ‘cheese-cake’ pictures. They wanted to photograph me outside in daylight, so I wrapped myself in my coat and went out with them. They decided the fountains outside the Dorchester would make the perfect watery background, and I was asked to pose on the grass verge. The usual mid-day traffic was jamming Park Lane, with people in taxis, cars and buses all gaping and grinning at me, while lorry drivers and newspaper boys gave surprised wolf whistles. Suddenly I was overcome with the embarrassment of posing in the middle of Park Lane in a bikini. I burst into tears of humiliation and to everyone’s startled amazement (including the dignified doorman) I flung my coat round me and rushed inside.

After this incident, I decided I would not be quite so anxious to please everyone in future. I made an arrangement with Rosemary about what I would and would not do; for example I didn’t like the idea of doing nightdresses and underwear, and I found I was not alone in this, as apparently photographers find it extremely difficult to find models who will do undies.

Bathing costumes were a problem: it may seem odd that I was willing to model them but not underclothes, yet to me there was difference, as one does not appear in one’s undies or nightwear in public whereas one is often in a swimsuit on the beach or at a swimming pool. So it was settled that I would continue to do swimsuits, though next time the press wanted to photograph me I decided to make sure it wasn’t in such a conspicuous place.

Incidentally it’s an awful nuisance showing beach wear, skating or ski-ing outfits as one has to take off stockings and roll-on for one number, and then put them on again for the next. I started getting landed with beach wear, for which one is usually required to paint one’s legs, arms and shoulders with brown make-up, which makes an awful mess of one’s clothes after the show.

The more I worked the more I realized how much larger the modelling world was than I had ever realized when I was working in a small part of it. Model girls can be divided into two main categories: the freelances, and the permanent who are attached to a dress house as I was to Horrockses, a couture house like Norman Hartnell, or a store like Harrods. They work there all the time and get paid anything between £5 and £10 a week. The freelance girls work through an agency for different firms and photographers and can be divided into the photographic models who do only photographs, the girls who only do shows, and yet again, some who do both.

An agent can make or mar a model’s career. Although one should not imagine, as a lot of new models do, that all one has to do is sit at home and wait for them to telephone you offering journeys to the moon. One of the best is Jean Bell (my agent today) and most of the models she represents telephone her office every day to get messages for the following day. These messages were more often than not given to one by Pat Ford who had one of the friendliest and most unruffled telephone voices it is possible to hear, despite the fact that there were usually about four ’phones ringing around her. She softened many an unpleasant message such as ‘they’ve cancelled you’, or ‘you’ve no bookings at all next week’, with cheerful encouragement, acting as a sort of nurse by telephone to depressed models.

I was always fascinated to meet, for the first time, a model whose face had become familiar to me from the magazines. I was now studying them with great earnestness all the time to learn the tricks of the trade. The models were usually so different to what one imagined, some were not nearly so attractive as they looked in their pictures, others were much more so. Some of their voices were so unexpected, for example, one girl called Isabel Babienska whose name and dark exotic looks led one to expect a foreign accent or a languorous drawl, had instead a very attractive soft Scottish brogue.

I learnt that a lot of the jobs I was doing, like knitting leaflets and catalogues, were called ‘bread and butter’ jobs and rather ‘looked down upon’ compared to the more glamorous high-fashion photographs for the editorials in the Glossies. To me however it was all work, and paid the same. When one is new one doesn’t know all about the subtle differences of each type of job and one only learns through experience, pleasant and unpleasant. One day I was rather surprised to find a manufacturer literally try and cheat by photographing something other than the actual product. I had been booked to do a stocking photograph for a very well known firm. When I arrived at the studio I happened to be wearing some extremely fine gauge nylons, which the client noticed and asked if I’d mind keeping my own stockings on for the shot. As I looked rather indignant, and somewhat surprised, he produced his own stockings. When I put them on I saw immediately why he wanted mine. His were much thicker and not nearly such a good colour! I may add that I remember this incident so vividly because it was the only time it has ever happened to me.

It was a great excitement to do my first cover picture. Ward Hart, now one of the most successful photographers in London, took it for Woman’s Own. I was terribly thrilled and impressed when I saw dozens of copies of it displayed on Smith’s bookstall at Waterloo. I stood beside them hoping people would realize it was me and look amazed, but I failed to get the slightest reaction from anyone.

I also enjoyed working for a couture house for the first time. I was booked by Mattli for two weeks to show his spring collection, where I learnt that a couture house sells individually-made clothes mainly to private customers— that is to say to anyone who can afford them—as opposed to a wholesale house which mass-produces clothes and sells them to the stores for retailing.

There are many couture houses in London but twelve of them got together soon after the war and formed an Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers popularly called ‘The Top Twelve’. Each year they elect an outside president and for the last two years it had been Lady Pamela Berry. At the moment the houses in the ISLFD are John Cavanagh, Victor Stiebel, Worth, Norman Hartnell, Michael Sherad, Digby Morton, Michael, Lachasse, Ronald Paterson, Mattli, Charles Creed, and Hardy Amies.

A couture house makes between fifty and one hundred models, twice a year for their autumn and spring collections, which are shown approximately in January and July. They are presented first to the press who write about them and photograph them for the magazines and newspapers, then to the private customers and buyers from the stores.

Before I worked for Mattli I had imagined that if a customer bought a dress or a suit from a couture house, that particular model was withdrawn from the collection. I soon discovered that if the designer withdrew each model as it was ordered, he would, obviously, soon have no collection left. A dress in a couture house collection may be copied for different customers as many as a hundred times if it is a success. The advantages of going to a couture house for clothes is of course that they are made to measure with a high standard of workmanship. The price makes it unlikely that you will see as many copies as if you bought something from a shop, and these price vary from 70 guineas for, say, a suit or day dress, to about £200 for a ball dress.

Soon after Mattli’s show I was booked to work during the fashion fortnight for ‘Susan Small’, which is one of the Model House group—another twelve houses, this time wholesale and not couture—who have organized themselves into a group with Frederick Starke as chairman, mainly so that they can arrange their shows to suit foreign buyers and the press by all showing in the same fortnight, now known as the ‘Fashion Fortnight’. They have also regularized other matters, like model fees, which they have fixed for the Fashion Fortnight at 15 guineas a week for one or two shows daily.

I had to go in for fittings before the shows. When we started showing we worked continuously from 9 in the morning until 6.30 in the evening, going through the collection over and over again. I became completely worn out. We did not even go out for lunch, but were brought sandwiches and coffee in the dressing-room. Now they have a set morning and afternoon show, which is much simpler.

A typical day in my life at this time would start at about 8.30 or 9, when I would leave for a fitting at a wholesale house for a show a couple of months ahead. This might last about an hour. I found fittings the most tiring part of modelling. You had to stand very still in a small cubicle in front of a triple mirror and try not to fidget whilst the fitter pinned and tacked and draped clothes on you. Apart from being the most tiring they were also the least well paid part of modelling; one was only paid a guinea a fitting, sometimes if they were long, a guinea and a half, out of which one might have to pay a taxi there and back, and ten per cent commission to one’s agent, in addition to the fact that it quite often cut into an afternoon or morning, which meant one could not be booked for anything else. That is why doing a number of shows, for which a lot of fittings are necessary, pulls the weekly total of one’s earnings down considerably. At these fittings I found it difficult at first to get accustomed to designers, tailors and fitters seeing me in the brassiere and panties: and it never ceased to amaze me that each time they took my measurements at a fashion house, the results were completely different. I began to suspect that each fitter had manufactured her own tape measure!

After the fittings I might have to rush off to another part of London to be at a studio by 10, where if it was a bread-and-butter job like a knitting leaflet, the jumper would be pulled and patted and pinned into shape on me, so that not a stitch was out of place. Sometimes it was extremely irritating standing still whilst the client fiddled with it, but patience is one of the many virtues models have to cultivate. One might be photographed in row after row of cheap clothes for mail order catalogues. Nothing ever fitted properly, and it was truly amazing how after much pinning and clipping and stuffing with tissue paper by the photographer or the client, the garments ultimately looked quite respectable. Nevertheless catalogues are soul destroying for both photographer and model, because the pictures are churned out like sausages and there is no nonsense about making attractive photographs. After the morning’s photography which probably lasted from 10 until 1 p.m. I might have to go and see someone in the lunch hour who wanted me to try some dresses on with a view to booking me for their show. If they liked me they would ring the agency and book me; if I was not suitable, they would make excuses—tactful or otherwise—and I would curse my wasted lunch hour. At 2 o’clock I would have to be at a store like Peter Jones for a show at 2.30 p.m. having bought some buns or chocolate somewhere en route. The show would last about an hour and be extremely exhausting, involving constant changes of clothes. If we were lucky, there would be a cup of tea afterwards—modelling seems to be punctuated with cups of tea.

Most of the big stores put on fashion shows twice a year to show to customers what the store has in stock for the coming season; it is considered good promotion by the sales department. All the different departments co-operate, as it encourages customers to buy more than they intended. If, for instance, a customer sees a suit in the show that she likes, worn with attractive accessories, she may go and buy the complete outfit. There is usually a commentator at a dress show who describes each outfit as it appears, but if one is showing in a salon or showroom either the model or a vendeuse (salesgirl) calls out the number or name. At hat shows I always used to forget my number, put the hat on and carefully arrange my hair, only to find I had not looked at the number which was sewn inside each hat for the show; off it had to come, and there would be a gap in the show whilst the audience waited impatiently and everyone flapped madly behind the scenes trying to push me on.

At 4 there would be another photographic session or maybe a rehearsal. Rehearsals were usually a shambles as half the things had not arrived or were not finished, and we never seemed to start on time so that we could get away early. I used to hate the moment when I arrived for a rehearsal to find the dressing room full of models, some whom one knew and some whom one didn’t. I was always convinced, if everyone stopped talking as I came in, that they had been discussing me. I probably got home between 6 and 7. Even then there might be a special evening show to do, like the Jewel Ball at the Albert Hall, where twenty models were booked to wear thousands of pounds’ worth of glittering jewels with evening dresses from the couture houses. It’s a strange sensation to wear fabulous emeralds and diamonds, knowing that a detective is waiting to whip them off you at the entrance to the dressing room. I wondered how they managed to keep their minds on all the jewels they were guarding, as their eyes were out on stalks watching pretty models!

I found the arrangements for paying models inconvenient and hard to get used to. Most of the people one worked for paid by cheque direct to the agency when an account was sent to them, so that one was only paid when one went to one’s agent and did accounts with her. A few photographers make on-the-spot payments, and I used to rely on that money for taxis and so on, as I never had time to go to the bank. Even if I had, I doubt if it was much use, as I was usually overdrawn!…If I went a whole week without working for the photographers who paid cash on the dot I was always in a fix. A model normally goes through her accounts with her agent about every five months. You can do it more often, but it is usually a waste of time because a lot of the firms pay monthly or quarterly to the agencies. If you go in too soon after you’ve done various shows, most of the cheques will probably not have come in. Some photographers never paid one at all and there are two in London who are notorious for not paying—in the end my agency put its foot down and said unless they paid the model at the end of a sitting they could not book any more models from that agency. Even then, one of them continued not to pay until finally he was taken to court.

There is no safeguard for models against unscrupulous firms and photographers. One firm owed me about £60 after I had done weeks of shows and fittings and photographs. When Rosemary sent the bill in to them there was no reply; she sent it again some time later and yet again. Finally, after the fifth time, they telephoned her and said that they had already paid me. Of course, it wasn’t true as I certainly wouldn’t overlook being paid £60! But it was their word against mine, and they absolutely refused to pay, repeating that they had paid me months before. Even when I went to see them I still could get no money. A friend of mine who was a lawyer told me: ‘If they paid you, you must have had a cheque which can be traced through the bank.’ I explained that was part of the trouble.

‘They say they paid me by handing over £60 in notes.’

‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about,’ said my friend. ‘Just tell them you’re taking them to court and that they will have to declare they handed £60 in notes to you, which won’t look too good for their business from the income-tax point of view.’

I did as he said, not really expecting any results. But immediately they said they would have just one last look to make sure. Finally they admitted that there had been a mistake, and then they paid me. But all this took about eighteen months of wrangling and unpleasantness. Unfortunately there is no models’ union to protect one from this sort of incident. It is just unlucky if you strike one of the very few dishonest firms. In other ways modelling is a very precarious profession. If one is ill and not working one does not receive any money at all. So unless a model has been wise and taken out some form of insurance, no work means no money.

The people a freelance photographic model comes into contact with most of all are naturally the photographers. One of the best fashion photographers in England is John French, whose pictures are constantly seen in the Daily Express. To every model at the beginning of her career he is a sort of God, so when I was first booked to work for him I was petrified I would do the wrong thing and displease him. In his top floor studio in Holborn he got his two assistants to surround me with large white screens. I was standing on white paper and there was more behind me and in front so I was in a sort of white box, with the camera, a Rolleiflex, just poking through. None of the big studio lights were directed on to me, but instead they were directed at the white screens, so that I stood in the reflected light. This is apparently how he gets that wonderful pale high key effect in his pictures. I found him extremely easy to work for as he mimed and gestured with his face and hands, showing exactly how he wanted me to look. Later I worked for John a lot and he has always been my favourite photographer. Once I started posing for him I never wanted to stop as he really inspires one. He was a painter before he was a photographer, which explains the highly developed sense of composition and line in his pictures.

John French is tall and elegant-looking in his dark blue blazer and Household Brigade tie. As he peers over his glasses, which he wears half-way down his nose, and with his mouth slightly open, he has a delightfully vague and artistic appearance, together with the most charming manners. He always treats his models with the utmost politeness, helping them out from behind the screens after the photograph is over and thanking them.

Another photographer I enjoyed working for was Richard Dormer of Harpers Bazaar. He takes the most wonderful pictures and works very quickly, generally with a Rolleiflex. It’s much easier for the model when a photographer uses a Rolleiflex because she can change her pose and expression quickly and naturally and the camera will catch it each time. With the big box camera posing is a slower and more laborious business.

Then of course there is the great Cecil Beaton, the uncrowned king of all that is beautiful and elegant in life. I always think that with his high, aesthetic-looking forehead, finely chiselled face, bright blue eyes and silvery white hair, he should really be in front of the camera, not behind it. The first time I worked for him was rather unfortunate. We were at his house in Pelham Place, and he only used my back view in the pictures. I was convinced it was because he hated the sight of me, and I felt dull and ugly as I stood all through the photograph, with my back to the camera, and tears silently streaming down my face. I’m sure it must be quite a record for a model in a fashion photograph to be crying and posing at the same time! However, later the same week I was working for him again, this time front view, so all was well.

About this time I also met Baron, the famous photographer of Royalty, society and the ballet, whose premature death this year came as a sad shock to all who knew him. In spite of our arguments over some of the earlier pictures he took of me we became good friends and I’ll always remember the wonderfully gay parties he used to give. I’m glad to think that the last pictures we did pleased us both and I wish he could have seen one of them used as the frontispiece to this book over which he was so encouraging.

One day Baron introduced me to Stephen Potter, the celebrated author of ‘Gamesmanship’. At the time he was editing a weekly magazine called The Leader. I tentatively remarked that I would love to try and write an article for his magazine.

‘Why not write about a week in the life of a model for my diary series?’ he suggested. Some time later after much pen-chewing and tearing-up of paper and starting again, I sent Stephen an article, not daring to hope too much. I’ll never never forget the thrill of the letter I received telling me the article was accepted, and when I actually saw it in print I was as proud as a peacock. It made everything else I was doing seem tame and uninteresting. It was then that somewhere at the back of my mind the idea formed of writing this book, although I never seriously believed I would get down to it.

Meanwhile the artificial glamour of modelling began to go to my head. I thought I was the Queen Bee as so many models have done before and since. It’s hard to keep level-headed with that first taste of success, when you are much in demand; it affects nearly all models, at one time or another, especially the younger ones. One is so impressed with oneself that one expects everyone else to be. But one soon gets deflated either by the other girls putting one in one’s place, or by the work slacking off again. Modelling is a profession in which success fluctuates continually: one can never sit back complacently and say ‘I’ve arrived’. Eventually one gets a sense of proportion about it all and realizes that to be a fairly successful model is not such a world shaking event after all.

About this time I had various offers of film work. One was from a little man who came up to me after a fashion show and asked if I was interested in going into films. I thought this sounded rather like a feeble attempt to get me to go out to dinner with him, but he gave me his card which looked quite genuine. When I showed it to Valerie Hobson, who was guest of honour at the show and to whom I had just been introduced, she told me that he was the best photographer at Arthur Rank’s studios…By strange coincidence the same week I was again asked if I was interested in film work, this time by Bill O’Bryen, then Sir Alexander Korda’s casting director, whom I met at a party. I had never had any particular yearnings to go on the films but the fact that I was approached twice in one week made me give it some thought. In the end I decided I was better off as I was, aiming at being a big fish in a small pond, than becoming a small fish in a large one, so I did nothing about it. Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, as one often does about ‘things that might have been’. Fundamentally however I think I value my freedom as an individual far too highly to become a film actress…